The Dance Macabre
by Crowfeeder
Summary: In Uberwald it is well known that on a certain night of the year Death will take up his violin for the ‘dans macabre’ when the dead leave their graves and dance through the streets.In fact, it really helps if he can play the violin…


The Dance Macabre.

_In Uberwald it is well known that on a certain night of the year Death will take up his violin for the 'dans macabre' when the dead leave their graves and dance through the streets._

_Vampires find the superstition a little 'volky' and werewolves were banned a long time ago for running off with bones. This is a time for humans to remember their ties to mortality and worry about their souls._

_For Death must be there. He must play the dance macabre. In fact, it really helps if he can play the violin…_

'THIS IS NOT A TIME OF YEAR I ENJOY,' Death said. If he could have rolled his eyes he would have, but glowing balls of blue loose a lot of their ability to translate meaning when hovering inside the orbits of an ancient, well used skull.

Albert flicked away his cigarette end, massaging his temples. 'You say this _every _year.'

'I MEAN, ARE YOU SURE A YEAR HAS GONE BY?'

Albert looked at Death, trying to see if there was a trick in the question. For Death, who could shave time from a life as finely as an engraver prepared a piece of boxwood for a royally embellished wedding invite, there was an incredible reluctance to admit time had caught him up.

'It's not that bad. I'll get the case.'

'NO!' Death inadvertently took a step, then straighten up and pretended to gaze across the infinite horizon of glass timers on shelves. 'I MEAN, NOT YET.'

'How about I get Binky harnessed?'

Death tapped a bony digit on his cheekbone. There was a tone to Albert's voice that he did not quite trust. 'WE-LL…'

'In the _special_ harness? It is tradition, it is expected and Binky does look good in it...' Albert began a sidle that would have taken him out of Death's sight, which was a talent that king's and viziers had promised him mountains of fist sized jewels with thousands of shallow minded girls who found such meaningless wealth attractive just to learn.

He was gone before Death could stop him.

'BUGGER IT.' There was no escaping this night. Death paced his room, trying to think of an excuse.

Several hours later, amongst the cold crags of Lancre, there was noticed a sudden change in the wind. Trees whipped around, throwing out startled crows who complained bitterly then, as if remembering a prior corpse to pick at, made themselves scarce.

Nanny Ogg was watching one of her daughter-in-laws hang out the laundry. She was a pretty girl with a strong back for carrying but she did have her place amongst the treasured pictures and would work hard to ensure she stayed there. Nanny Ogg marked the wind from the north and pulled her pipe from her grinning mouth. The grin fell away as the pipe was tapped out on a fence post.

'Gal, be a love and run up to our Jason's forge. He has a visitor who need not be kept waiting.'

The young lady nodded and left quickly, though not after Nanny Ogg reminded her that left laundry that sat in baskets on the ground for too long couldn't be hung out. It would need washing all over again.

Dusk often arrives at different times in Lancre. It depends on the mountains and the weather. Light being such a lazy commodity, it was not unknown for it to altogether give up on trying to ascend the misty mountains and instead just head for the rim and hope no-one had noticed.

Jason had spent several long minutes looking at the page on the almanac. The words and numbers danced at him, teasing his thick thumb to join in. Screwing his eyebrows and focusing hard he checked the day and the time for sunset.

'S'not dusk for a while yet,' he murmured. But mum knew what she was doing. If she said he would have a visitor at dusk, any minute now, then he knew he would. He sat in the forge and waited, his tools laid out on the work top, the forge heaving and spitting like a dragon about to give birth.

There was a long drawn out knock knock knock on the forge door.

Jason slipped on his blindfold and opened the door. Dusk pushed its way in, an hour early. A wet nose slapped against the side of Jasons face, nuzzling him.

'ello, old girl,' he said kindly.

'PARDON?'

'Oh, not you, sir. No, I meant-'

He silenced as the rider dismounted, walking across the lime floor of the forge with his funny staccato stride as though he had ball bearings in his soles.

'ONE OF HER SHOES FEELS… A LITTLE… LOOSE.'

Death felt a little pang of guilt as he said this. The blacksmith looked horrified, mumbling apologies as he lifted a fetlock to feel the shoe. Binky let him check, she knew he was a good smith and he always had a red apple for her. Death had brought the night with him a bit earlier, shooing the sluggish light of day ahead of Binky's resounding, sepulchral hooves.

'They all feel fine, sir.' Jason let out a sigh of relief as he spoke. Special shoes should never be loose, he had a reputation to uphold- even though it were only with two people and a horse.

'OH, GOOD, GOOD...' Death leant forward on his chair, taking a second to look about the forge. This man looked as though he could make an exceptional scythe, there were some part beaten blades in a willow basket near the forge. This could be an ideal opportunity to, Death paused. What was it when he needed to replace something that was indestructible and crafted so well it could even cut through bonds of octarine or narrativium? A spare. That was it. Now was the ideal time to have a spare scythe made. In case of emergencies or accidents. That would take a while, getting the blade right.

Death looked over to the blacksmith and was horrified to notice that he was running a heavy hand across the ornately crafted harness she was wearing. Albert had taken the time to rub some leather grease into the tooled designed and curly edges. The entire harness oozed the type of gothique macabre admired by sulky teenagers who thought that old graveyards were cool and not places to upset your piles or rheumatism.

'Are you off to Uberwald, sir?' Jason asked, holding Binky and rolling an apple from his pocket to her mouth.

There was no escape. 'YES, I GO THERE NEXT ON UNAVOIDABLE BUSINESS.'

Jason smiled. 'Very good- oh, I just remembered. They've got a special dance tonight. Practically 'eathen it is. When the-'

'YES, I AM AWARE. THANK YOU, GOOD SMITH, BUT I MUST AWAY.'

'Of course.' Jason heard the chink of a coin being cast onto the workbench then the fast gallop of the horse. He cocked his head. Now that he could hear it moving, albeit briefly across the cobbles set outside his forge he could tell that the offside hind shoe might have had a bit of looseness about it. He would see it to next time.

Above Uberwald, amongst a sky whose clouds had long ago learnt to either swirl in menacing eddies or whisk past to hide the dark flights of creatures of the night, Death reigned in Binky.

The land below had an expectant air about it. Cold mist had settled across graveyards, hugged close to mausoleums and crypts then practically cascaded over precipices where rickety shrines perched.

Death sensed the silence of the wolf on this night.

The leather saddle, tooled with skulls and bones amongst heavy Uberwald scripts, glistened with the cold light of the moon, making the work of unlashing the case much easier. On the front of the case was a painted skull, it looked very mournful.

He had tried to avoid this moment. He tried every year, but Uberwald had a tradition. It was not one that Death understood or was happy with. It had all started with some asthmatic musician who had composed a tune. Well, it was a bit more than a tune, he admitted, it was a symphonie fantastique. Written to impress a lady, soaked with emotion and spurned love that had driven him to madness. Only then had she noticed him. This still, centuries later, made no sense to Death,

In Uberwald the symphony had been an instant hit.

And it had begun a tradition. So strongly was this believed that even Death himself could not resist becoming a part of the ritual.

Beneath the chill moonlight the case creaked loudly, swinging open beneath his skeletal hand.

Four silver strings shone brilliantly from the black wood of the musical instrument in the case. Ivory pegs were perfectly turned. A white horse hair bow nestled in the lid of the case. Binky hadn't been happy about that, as he rcalled.

'Oh no,' hissed a passing bat, 'not zis bluty nacht alveady…'

Death lifted out the violin, slightly affronted. His ability was not that bad considering he had never taken a lesson in his existence. Death did not enjoy playing this maudlin tune that much either, he had begun to wonder if he could spice it up a little.

'AND A ONE, A TWO, A ONE TWO THREE,' he tried to whisper between his teeth. If he had a tongue it too would have been thrust through his lips in concentration. Well, that was if he had lips as well.

A long, clear note claimed the night as his own. Distant wolves howled and left, they'd been told long ago. Vampires withdrew, slamming windows and pushing wool into their ears. The people of Uberwald closed their doors after leaving gifts of choice sweets and clothes like hats and scarves on the steps of their homes.

Tonight was the Dans Macabre of the Symphonie Fantastique, the dance of the dead, as the graves of those who had died in the last year were pushed opened by skeletons from below. Hard fingers of bone clawed away the soil to drag out charnel bodies packed with earth and worms. With jigs and stiff steps the dead moved away from their graves. Skeletal faces looked up at Death, high above, his violin held to his chin as he played and they felt the stir of love in the music, a love from beyond madness, from beyond the grave.

Tonight they would dance wildly. This was to be a celebration of their passing. In giddy, jerking motions the dead of Uberwald danced. Those from the older families waltzed, of course.

Death was oblivious to it all. His eyes shrunk to concentrated lights, watching his fingers dance across the silver strings against the white horse hair bow. In his mind, he kept repeating, 'ONE TWO THREE- ONE TWO THREE'.

From old homes the dancing dead would collect their gifts, knowing they were cherished and remembered by their families. At dawn the skeletons slowed, staggering back, to return to their graves, where they climbed back into the cold hard ground to slumber. Their souls, which had believed in the power of a love symphony over the reality of mortality, were quickly brought up to speed by Death, who after hours of playing the same tune over and over again was everso grateful to pack away the Violin Macabre.

Often the dead thanked him for his playing. Many carried a coin for the ferryman and a coin for the fiddler. Death took these modestly, always with the same words, 'THANK YOU, REALLY, NEXT YEAR I'LL GET LESSONS.'

Death no longer wondered where the music came from. He knew what to do. It was expected, his fingers knew where to be on the strings and frets as the dead danced and the living listened below.

Reining Binky about, staring over the misty morning of Uberwald, Death wondered if he should try a little Bluegrass next year. Next time he really would fit in a few lessons first.

(With grateful thanks to Berlioz.)


End file.
